The bogan’s life path is, like the rest of us, indeterminate. As a young boaglet, the child-spawn is faced with a plethora of careers, romances, possible criminal records and fast-food/energy drink-induced cardiac arrests.
The bogan is, however, rebellious. It don’t take no guff from no one. It does what it wants when it wants. If the bogan’s parents were lawyers and judges, then HELL NO the bogan won’t work to achieve those things. The bogan will sink bulk piss, glass some cunt at Lucky Coq, then slip into a life of blissful mediocrity, in a location where it is suitably less mediocre than those around it.
This would not have been the bogan’s life direction if it was Tom Waterhouse. Had it been, the general approach to adulthood and career would have involved sinking bulk piss then glassing some cunt at Lucky Coq, before arriving at the door of Freehills and insisting that because its relatives going back into the distant past could cobble together a half decent ambit claim that it should undoubtedly become a Freehills gun-for-hire post-haste.
Waterhouse, scion of Gai and Robbie (son of Bill), is attempting to parley his family heritage at setting profit-making odds for mug punters or training large mammals to run fast while bearing a diminutive, whip-toting pilot into a suave, 21st century gambling empire. The bulk of this is done through plastering every sporting event in the world with his plastic, smirking mug via any medium possible.
Watching ads for tomwaterhouse.com.au is the worst thing in the world.
The detestable little pustule even roped his poor mum into the ad to try to give him some kind of credibility, even though she is not actually a bookmaker but a horse trainer. This is pretty much like applying for a job as a RBA economist, then offering your qualifications as ‘my mum taught a TAFE course in household budgeting’.
He also decides to trot around the betting ring toting a big white bag with his name on it, clearly forgetting the number one lesson of stranger danger – children (and adults with the stature and appearance of pre-pubescent polo players) should NOT go out in public with clothing and accessories which have your name on it. Should Tom be abducted by a lolly-bearing murderess, this fundamental error will surely be to blame.
In essence, the Tom Waterhouse pitch is thus:
Some people to whom I am related have a history of taking money off people under the mistaken impression that they have knowledge about something that is effectively a crapshoot. In particular, the womb that I squelched out of 30 years ago has some tangential relationship to gambling. Therefore if you give me money to bet, you will lose less of it.
Never mind the fact that if reprehensible arsehat actually does have any greater understanding of how gambling works, it would be in his interests to offer the bogan odds that are MORE likely to lead to his garnering bulk bogan bucks.
The ads he puts together give the bogan the distinct indication that his services will provide it with some kind of insight – assistance in making the bogan the Mahogany Room hero it was always meant to be. Looking at the site indicates that he is a bookie. A bookie with a solipsistic fetish for slathering all of his communications with that eminently, eminently punchable face.
Waterhouse tells the bogan that he has ‘betting in his blood’. The bogan, overlooking the fact that it would be much better off betting against someone who wouldn’t know Black Caviar from Furious D, goes to the aforementioned website, and puts all of its money, again, on Cunning Stunt.
Tom Waterhouse, sitting in his hypobaric chamber to keep his rubbery maw rubbery, clasps his hands together and smiles.